


Two Weeks To The End Of The World

by ruffaled



Series: Marvel Writing Challenge [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1940s, 21st Century, Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Male Friendship, Memories, Pining, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, The Avengers (2012) Compliant, Tragic Romance, marvel writing challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 03:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16846663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruffaled/pseuds/ruffaled
Summary: When Steve's plane crashed into the Arctic, and the cold slowly crept under his skin, burrowing deep into his bones, he was sure he was going to die a hero. He was, in fact, glad to have played his part in saving the world. But when he opened his eyes again, there was something wrong with the picture: There were too many flashing billboards and moving advertisements around him, and Times Square did not look like what he remembered. Oh, and the world was ending again — this is what happened in between.For the Marvel Writing Challenge — see notes inside.





	Two Weeks To The End Of The World

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the [Marvel Writing Challenge](https://marvelwritingchallenge.tumblr.com/post/180551924159/random-words-random-characters-hello-everyone). The challenge was to write a fic about an assigned character using three mandatory words. Mine was Steve Rogers, and the words were noble, credit card and colour-blind.

**Day One**

Steve regretted his plan to break out from the guarded facility as soon as he stepped through the main doors and smelled the city’s steamy summer. The putrid odor followed him down the sidewalks, across the roads, until he stumbled out of breath into a crowded intersection the shape of a bowtie: flashing billboards loomed overhead, bright advertisements displayed above storefronts, and there was a cacophony of pedestrians, cars, and music blaring from all sides.

For a moment, Steve was back on the front line, dodging bullets and cannon fire in his mind, tired sighs and dying breaths echoing in his ears. He didn’t realise he had closed his eyes until the screeching of tires coming to a sudden halt jolted him back to reality. It was then that Steve realised he was at Times Square, which looked nothing like what he remembered.

Four cars rounded up around him; a tall man in a black overcoat and a matching eyepatch stepped out. He was frowning.  

The fight abandoned Steve and confusion settled in. There was something wrong with the picture, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. He remembered steering the plane down towards a white blanket in the Arctic. The bombs didn’t detonate, which surprised him, but the cold moved in fast, crawled under his uniform and sunk into the hollows of his bones. Steve’s head throbbed; it felt like someone was squeezing him from both sides, trying to mold him into a narrow space. His vision was blurring, nausea clawing at the back of his throat.

“At ease soldier!” the man with the eyepatch said, moving closer; his frown transformed into a concerned look. “I’m sorry about that little show back there, but… we thought it best to break it to you slowly.”

“Break what?” Steve said, doubt creeping into his voice. His headache worsened. The serum did nothing to ease the constant, pulsating pain in his temples.

“You’ve been asleep, Cap. For almost seventy years.” The man almost looked sad being the bearer of the news.

Steve's knees wobbled under the weight of realisation, ready to give out, and sink to the dirty concrete. Using the last bit of willpower he still possessed, he steadied himself. Seventy years sounded like a lifetime, but it felt closer to an eternity. He remembered names, faces, and voices. They formed memories from before went into the ice, immutable, timeless, forever out of reach.

“You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I just… I had a date.”

***

 

**Day Two**

Steve’s room had a standard, single hung window that looked out to a garden three floors down. There were bars made from reinforced steel that made too much noise the first time he tried to break them, and it alerted the guards stationed outside the room.

Fury, the man who collected him from Times Square, was not pleased.

“It’s for your own safety, Captain,” he said. He sounded irritated, pacing around the room with his hands behind his back. “You’re not in the right state of mind to go off wandering on your own. At least, not yet.”

“Am I a prisoner?” Steve asked from where he sat on the bed. The white walls, adorned by the bright fluorescent light overhead, felt like they were closing in on him. The need to get out settled on his skin, a constant itch without relief.

“You’re not a prisoner. We’ve been through this yesterday.”

After they had returned to the facility the previous evening, Fury made good on a promise to tell Steve everything he wanted to know: His aircraft was found by a Norwegian fishing boat; he had been unconscious in a frozen, vegetative state for almost a week until the serum’s effects kicked in. The war was over. The allied forces stormed the beaches in Normandy and chased Nazism back to the dark crevices of humanity. Fury had said nothing about Hydra or the Red Skull, but Steve knew at the back of his mind that they’d be back one day.

“I want to see Peggy.”

Fury stopped pacing. His expression was unreadable, but there was resignation in his eyes as if he had been counting down the minutes till Steve made that request.

“Her whereabouts are classified, Captain.”

Steve crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t care, Fury. I need to see her.”

“No.”

“At least tell me where’s Howard.”

“Not right now.”

Steve sprang to his feet, shoulders tensed, and ready for a fight. The other man stood his ground as they squared off.

“There are other, important things that we need to get you up to speed,” Fury said. The firmness in his tone left little room for argument. “You’re going to meet a therapist tomorrow for a psych evaluation. Once you’re cleared to go out into the field on your own, we’ll revisit this soldier.”

Steve dreamt about his old life that night. Growing up sick in a poor, working-class Brooklyn neighbourhood meant every day was a fight for survival. Most evenings they didn't have enough food on the table. In the winter months, he relied on his mother’s home-made remedies for asthma because there wasn’t any money left for the medicine.

After he turned four, his mother used to read to him before bed, from old books with stained ochre pages she had found around the city. Sometimes there were pages missing, or torn. On his eighth birthday, she brought home a new story about a king who ruled over Camelot, a magical world hidden from the dusty industrial New York by an ocean that stretched beyond the horizon, further than the naked eye could see; the king had a beautiful queen who stood by his side, loyal knights watched his back and a wise sorcerer guided his reign.   

As she read the pages to him every night, Steve wanted to be just like the king: brave, strong and noble. He decided that just like the king protected his people, weak and strong alike, Steve would also defend those who couldn’t help themselves. He’d stand up against bullies everywhere.

***

 

**Day Three**

“There’s no point in this. I can’t see why we need to sit here and waste time.”

Steve frowned at the woman sitting opposite him. The room was bigger than the one he was living in. It was sterile, smelled like lavender and sandalwood, the decoration sparse, with leather sofas placed next to an artificial fireplace.

The therapist had a sharp, angular face; her blond hair tied in a ponytail and black-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She scribbled on the loose sheets of papers in her clipboard without glancing at her patient.

“Why do you think we’re wasting time, Mr. Rogers?”

“Steve.”

She looked up. “Pardon?”

“Call me, Steve, please,” he said, faltering under her gaze. He clasped his hands together and cleared his throat; it felt parched but there was no water pitcher inside the room. “I’m not sure how you’re supposed to evaluate me.”

“Leave that to me. Why don’t you tell me about something about your old life? Could be anything—girlfriend? Family? Your favourite war kills.”

“We didn’t kill for sport,” Steve said, raising his voice. He didn’t mean to but her nonchalance grated him, tugged at his patience. She kept writing, oblivious to his discomfort. “We went to the frontline because the fight needed to be fought. No one enjoyed it, but standing up to the bully was more important. We all made sacrifices.”

“I see.” She raised her chin, her expression unreadable. She set the clipboard down on the sofa. “Tell me about your friends. What do you remember?”

“Everything.”

And he told her: Steve met Bucky at a playground near his building; he was the only one who gave young, sickly Steve a second glance. Within weeks, they became thick as thieves. Steve spent years growing up and picking fights in shadowy alleys with Bucky hot on his heels to save him, sometimes from himself. The first time Steve went on a date, Bucky drove him to the diner and stuck extra dollar bills in his pocket. When he had tuberculosis, Bucky stayed the nights at the Rogers’ apartment, taking turns by his bedside with his mother.

In the end, following Bucky to the front lines was always the plan, and Steve was determined to die trying.

“When I finally got to Europe, I was in Italy, and they told me Buck was MIA, they assumed he was dead. But I had to be sure… I needed proof that he was gone. He’d have done the same for me,” Steve said.

The therapist watched him with rapt attention. Her notes lay forgotten as Steve narrated the rescue mission behind enemy lines from memory.

“I would’ve never found him without Howard and Peggy,” he said, leaning forward. “They—they went against everything they believed in because I had asked for their help. So, Ms—”

“Mallen.”

“Ms. Mallen, why won’t you or Fury tell me what happened to them?”

She tucked her hair back, mum.

***

 

**Day Four**

Steve was halfway through his breakfast —oatmeal; it was an unfamiliar taste and bits of it were lodged between his teeth— when the door to his room swung open. A man in a buttoned-up shirt and pants that were two sizes too small walked in with his eyes down and mouth set in a hard line, carrying a folder. He was sweating. The light blue shirt clung to his back in places, dark stains forming under the armpits, and curly black hair stuck to his forehead. The smell of his cologne was nauseating.

“Who are you?” Steve asked, setting his bowl down.

“Cam… Cameron Klein.” The man muttered. “I’m your...your SHIELD liaison officer. In other words, I’m… I’m here to help you settle in.”

“Shield?”

“Yeah, you know, we’re… the Strategic Homeland… Intervention Enforcement and… Logistics Division,” Klein said, after a vocal exhale. “SHIELD, for short.”

Steve eyed the folder in Klein’s hand. “What’s in the file?”

“You.”

Klein laid out the folder’s contents on the bed: Fury had arranged for Steve’s papers — a new passport, social security number, a bank account, and two credit cards. Steve thumbed through the passport and frowned.

“This isn’t right,” he said, holding the first page up, containing his details and photograph. “It says my date of birth is July 4, 1981. You have the order reversed, I was born in 1918.”

“Yeah, it’s… it’s just being a millennial is easier to sell when you look like that. I’m not sure if we have a name for your generation anymore because everyone’s—” Klein caught himself just in time; a nervous chuckle belied his guilt at the faux pas.

Steve was distracted. “A mille—what?”

“Millennial. People born… never mind. Look, Cap, just trust us, it’s not really a big deal if you’re 33 or 93, okay? Let’s talk about your apartment.”

Steve sat a little straighter, with renewed interest.  

The flat was still not ready for him to move in. It was a studio next to Brighton Beach, near Coney Island, and not far from where his mother’s flat used to be. Steve’s face was blank when Klein told him that the old building was demolished in the 1960s. Sadness clouded his features as he looked back on the things he once possessed at his childhood home: an easel, charcoal pencils, drawing papers, the children’s books that his mother used to keep safe for his future kids. Coney Island’s attractions used to be a big draw when Steve was growing up. People from all over the city used to travel to southwest Brooklyn for Ferris wheels, the roller coasters, and the bright, electric lights.

“So, when can I move in?” Steve asked.

“Give it a couple of days. We’re still working out the paperwork, but we’ll have it ready soon,” Klein said as he turned to leave. “Oh, and Fury asked me to tell you that you’re now free to roam the facility if you want. But you still can’t go out on your own.”

Steve nodded.

***

 

**Day Five**

Steve slipped out of the facility, unnoticed, at the first chance he got, trailing a group of construction workers who were leaving after their shift.  

By noon, he’d walked thirty blocks nonstop to the Upper West Side. The sidewalk had few, if any, pedestrians as the locals took refuge in the subway, and the tourists scurried on board their air-conditioned tour buses. The sun glared from a clear sky, its rays burning on his skin, the heat simmering on concrete and the muggy air left him panting, desperate for water.

There was a supermarket around the corner. Walking in, Steve experienced a culture shock: there were rows of bright-coloured foods, some canned, others raw, perishable, preserved, dry, and wet. There were constant beeps of barcodes getting scanned at the cash counters; shoppers spoke in discordant and excitable voices. The employees shouted to each other from one row to the next.

At the back, Steve stood watching the rows of hot foods put on display. The smell was overwhelming; his stomach growled in earnest as the server behind the counter waited on his order. After deliberating for minutes, Steve fell back to his old habits: cooked meat and bread.

Things fell apart when he went to pay.

“Sorry, your card’s getting declined,” the cashier told him after swiping it several times on the machine. “Can you pay cash?”

She sounded curt. The shoppers standing in line behind Steve were losing their patience; some glowered at him, others tutted.

“I… I don’t have any cash on me,” Steve said, his voice faltering. A flush crept up his face, and he avoided making eye contact with the others behind him. “I’d like to return these.”

“Well, you’re going to have to go to the counter at the back for that.”

Before Steve moved out of the line, a man with loose white hair and frail, withering skin pushed his way to the front. He carried a walking stick and looked like he was nearly a hundred years old. Shoppers in adjacent lines paused to watch the scene unfold.   

“I’ll buy this young man’s meal,” the man said, putting down a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. He turned to Steve and gave him a once over. “You remind me of someone, an old friend from the war. We used to call him Captain America — the bravest man I ever knew. He was young, like you, and gave up his life for his country. Didn’t even hesitate. He saved my life, saved all our lives.”

Steve took the bag from the cashier in silence. The words, the gratitude for the man’s kindness, was caught in his throat as he followed the stranger towards the exit. For all the details that were stuck in his head, hundreds of faces from the war that he remembered, and mourned, Steve couldn’t recall ever seeing the man in his life.

The old man thumped his back. “They just don’t make ‘em like him anymore. Now, you take care and be good, young man.”

***

 

**Day Six**

“I’m so, so sorry, Cap. It was such a stupid mistake and I’m… I’m sorry,” Klein said. He stood by the foot of the bed, hands tucked to the side, and he looked ready to fall on his knees in supplication if Steve asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve said, waving his hands. He sat by the desk with an open sketchbook. It had an unfinished portrait of a woman with high cheekbones, bright eyes, and glossy, shoulder-length hair. “I wasn’t supposed to sneak out, anyway. So we’re square.”

Klein didn’t share that view as he left.

He returned a few hours later after Steve had already finished the portrait and was sketching the Brooklyn Bridge from memory. Klein dumped classified folders on the desk.

“I just… I still feel really bad for messing up,” he said when Steve peered at the files. “This is all I could pull together from my clearance level. If...uhhh….if you didn’t mention this to Director Fury, that’d be great.”

Steve nodded. “Thank you.”

The files were about his old team: Dugan died a year ago from cancer. He lived alone in the South. Jones went years ago—a freakish road accident with very little details on file. Falsworth had gone off-grid and even SHIELD didn’t know where he went. Morita was still alive and lived with his son, a local school principal, in Queens. Bucky’s file had a single page—a confirmation of his death. Steve could still hear the echoes of his scream as he plunged to his death in a forest where empty branches wilted under the weight of the snow.

“What happened to Howard and Peggy?” Steve asked.

Klein shuffled behind him. He sighed. “I don’t know about Agent Carter, Cap. I’m sorry, it’s above my pay grade. But Howard Stark and his wife died in a car crash in 1991. I could print out newspaper clippings if you want... they had a son, his name’s Tony Stark and he’s a… he’s something.”

***

 

**Day Seven**

Steve lay on the sofa, legs crossed and arms folded under his head, eyes closed. His therapist sat across from him, observant, taking notes as he spoke.

“I never got to thank him,” he said. “He risked his life for me and gave me a shield. I should’ve—I wish, I could have—”

That morning, Klein dropped by with an old newspaper clip. The headline read in bold letters: Howard And Maria Stark Die In Car Accident On Long Island. It had happened on a Thursday night, a week before Christmas. The car had swerved off the road because of a brake failure and hit a tree. Steve’s mind put the words into pictures; a battered Howard struggling to breathe in a driver seat, holding his dying, or already-dead, wife’s hand, waiting to join her on the side.

“At least he went with his wife by his side. I never thought he’d be the type to settle down and have a family,” Steve said, turning to face his therapist. “He was so flamboyant, a total charmer and he could talk the pants off of anyone.”

“You two must’ve been close.”

“Not really, no. I wish we were, we’d have been great friends if we had time. I… I don’t… I didn’t know much about Howard but he helped me when I needed him.”

“How?” She asked. And so he told her: It was Peggy’s idea, but the plan had hinged on Howard because he was the only pilot willing, and able, to disobey the chain of command. The danger of their plane being shot down, stranding them behind enemy lines, had given Steve a pause on his daring rescue mission. Howard brushed off the worries, promising that Hell would freeze over before the Germans shot down his plane.

“He has a son,” Steve said later as they wrapped up the session. “I don’t know much about him but I’d like to reach out and offer my help. Whatever he might need—it’s the least I can do after everything Howard’s done for me.”

Mallen folded her hands in her lap. She was silent.

***

 

**Day Eight**

Eight days after he woke up from the ice, Steve discovered the internet. Klein brought in a standard government-issued laptop and spent an hour taking Steve through the configurations. By the end of it, he had access to his new SHIELD email, the databases, and the world wide web.

“Are you going to be okay?” Klein asked before leaving. “I mean you know how to send emails now, so you can always drop me a line… if you need help.”

Steve nodded.

As soon as Klein left, Steve pulled up the SHIELD database and searched for Peggy. He tried every permutation and combination of her name, but the search results were always the same: Nothing. Her whereabouts were above his security clearance level. Steve slammed his fists on the table in frustration.

***

 

**Day Nine**

It was moving day.

“Your belongings have already been brought to the apartment,” Fury said.

Steve hadn’t seen him in days, and he noticed the gentle bruise forming under his good eye. “Got into any fist fights lately?” he asked. That earned him a coy smile.

“The car’s ready whenever you are.”

“Actually,” Steve said, packing up the last of his things from the room into a backpack that Klein brought over. “I was thinking if I could take the subway by myself. I’d like to think I’ve earned that.”

“Fine, if that’s what you want.”

An hour later, Steve sat on a Brooklyn-bound train still trying to figure out what was Fury’s angle. The way the Director caved to the request was too easy. He was prepared for a lot more resistance.

The train was crowded. The car Steve sat in smelled like body odor and egg muffins. The passenger next to him was doing her crocheting, humming an unfamiliar tune under her breath. In front of him, a young couple stood leaning into one another, but their body language was tense. By the time the train left Manhattan, the couple was in the middle of a heated argument, and the woman left the train at the next stop. The man followed without missing a beat.

Such a public display of anger was new to Steve; he was still processing the squabble when the woman next to him said, “Young love these days… it’s all about instant gratification. No one’s willing to put in the work that goes into relationships.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Steve said with half a shrug.

“Got a girlfriend?”

“No, didn’t work out. I had a date.”

The woman set her crotchet down and turned to him, curious. Steve noticed she was at least a few years older, late-thirties, and attractive. The way she carried herself, with subtle charm and abundant self-assurance, reminded him of Peggy. Smart, confident Peggy who had once made a sport out of toying with eager, arrogant cadets in the army.

“I never made it on time,” Steve said. “And I don’t know what happened to her, I’ve been _trying_ to find her but no one seems to know.”

“Ah, so she was one of those mysterious summer flings? Disappeared without a trace? Left you pining like a fool?” Her whole face lit up. “I’m working on my first novel, and my protagonist is in a similar bind.”

“What’s happened to him?”

“Well, _she_ is all set to marry her childhood sweetheart but, then, she met this gorgeous woman while travelling through Florence, and now she’s confused. Does she go back to her old, boring fiance? Or does she take a leap of faith and elope with her new lover?”

Steve smirked. “If I were her, I’d elope.”

***

 

**Day Ten**

The apartment was furnished, but it still felt cold and empty. The walls were white, the decor was minimal, and the lightbulbs overhead were too bright.

Klein dropped by in the afternoon, bringing several boxes up to the studio from his car. He brought kitchen appliance—a coffee maker, an induction cooker, and a toaster. The microwave was already there. The paper-thin television set felt new, with images so sharp that they felt like they were being imprinted to the back of Steve’s eyeballs. Klein insisted it was just lying around, collecting dust in his attic, when questioned. Steve didn’t buy the lie.

“I still have a couple more things that I want to drop off here,” Klein said on his way out. “You need a router for your internet.”

“Cameron,” Steve said, putting a hand on his shoulder, feeling the other man immediately tense as a blush crept up his face. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, but you _have_ done a lot. I can’t keep taking these from you.”

“Oh… don’t worry about it, Cap. These are all my spares, so if anything, you’re doing me a favour by taking them off my hands. I’ll see you soon.”

***

 

**Day Eleven**

Steve tried cooking for the first time; it went as bad as he had expected. The studio smelled like the insides of a chimney. He had followed the instructions to work the induction cooker just as Klein had written them down, on a piece of paper stuck to the fridge door with a tacky yellow cab magnet.

He dumped the frying pan into the sink, with the burnt eggs still in it, and went to bed hungry.

***

 

**Day Twelve**

Klein showed up with more gadgets—a new laptop, a WiFi router and cables—and breakfast, balancing them on both hands, waiting to be let into the apartment.  

Steve stood under the cooling spray water inside the shower stall, mind wandering down forgotten streets, rummaging through broken promises, and dreams left unfulfilled. He relieved the way Peggy looked at him when he returned to the base, an army of freed soldiers in tow; Her eyes turned glassy, lips thinly parted, and desire—for Steve—exuded from every pore in her body. It invited him in, like a call to paradise, and he answered.

“Stop, Steve please, stop,” Peggy sounded breathless that night. The bulk of his shoulders blanketed her smaller frame, pressed her into the dirty wall behind the bar teeming with drunk soldiers, making her shudder. It was freezing outside. Her skirt was bunched up and Steve’s knee rested between her parted legs.   

“What happened? I thought you want this,” Steve said, deflating a little. He was hard, she was still panting.

“I do, I really do,” she smiled, leaning in for a kiss. “But you have to take me out on a date first before we do this. It's only proper.”

Steve buried his face in her neck and groaned.

“And what do I do with this?” he asked, looking down between them.

Peggy's grin widened. “I think I can help.”

The doorbell’s constant ringing dragged Steve back to reality. He washed up, his face flushed, and put on fresh clothes before answering the door.

“Finally,” Klein said, stepping inside without preamble. “I was about to call for backup if you didn't open in the next thirty seconds.”

“Sorry. I… I was in the shower.”

“Hmm.” Klein waved his hands dismissively. “I brought breakfast. Eat while I set up your Internet.

By the evening, Steve wished Klein had never told him about the Internet. It clawed open raw wounds and ripped out whatever bandages that he managed to put on them since waking up. He read everything he could about Peggy: her long-standing service to the country, her marriage, family, and retirement. She had disappeared from the public eye three months before he woke; Steve was late. Again.

There was no dearth of information on Howard's family: The weapons manufacturing empire he built from scratch, his marriage into an aristocratic Italian family, the child prodigy that Maria Carbonell Stark bore him.

Steve was uncertain about Tony Stark. In his late 30s, Stark junior was Howard’s carbon copy: Brilliant, flamboyant and a flair for the dramatic, Steve decided as he watched the other man mouth off the government in a video. Stark possessed everything Steve used to admire in Howard, but on him, that behaviour, the same knowing smile, and the similar, accented voice felt crass. Obscene, even. Steve hated it.

***

 

**Day Thirteen**

Steve sighed.

There were too many colours on the wall in front of him—different shades of the same primary tones lined up in neat rows, their presence engendering more confusion. His eyes struggled with the subtle differences between brick, wine, and garnet when they all looked the same. Before the serum, and the 20/20 vision, life used to be simple: Steve’s world was condensed into blues and yellows—his mother had beautiful, golden curls, and Peggy’s eyes were gray as they bore into his own, like stars at midnight. The first time he saw red, away from the show choir and the blinding glitz and glamour of war propaganda, a soldier bled out in his arms behind enemy lines.

That morning Steve decided the white walls in his little studio were too reminiscent of the old room at SHIELD’s facility. It suffocated him; the walls exuded a certain coldness that made him pull the blanket a little tighter at night, and made him shiver every time he rose from the bed. Steve walked three blocks, past the grocers and the laundromat, to the local home improvement store in the neighbourhood, and stared at paint for almost half an hour.

He gravitated towards the shades of blue. They felt familiar, like tiny puzzle pieces that made up his past. Steve picked up a tin, confident in his choice for the first time since waking up.

***

 

**Day Fourteen**

The colour choice was a disaster. Steve stayed up all night painting the living room; in the morning, his enthusiasm was punctured when he learned turquoise walls were considered unacceptable.  

“You hate it,” Steve said, crossing his arms.

Klein was setting up the sound system and a new DVD player, which he no longer pretended was lying around in his garage. He forced himself to meet Steve’s eyes from his spot on the floor, where he was connecting the wires.  

“It’s an unusual choice,” he said. His tone was measured; Klein didn’t want to offend Captain America so early in his career. “Most people would’ve just gone for a darker shade, like navy or midnight blue. But, if… if you like this, then, then that’s great, that’s fine and—”

“Cameron. I’ll get new paint.”

Steve was back at the store, staring at the massive wall again when a sales assistant approached him.

“Need help?”

She looked like she was in her 50s. The crease lines around the corner of her eyes, wisps of gray tangled up in jet black hair and the silent understanding in her eyes, behind those thin-rimmed glasses, hinted at her lengthy experience dealing with confused tenants who walked into the store everyday.

Steve nodded. He gestured at the wall—he had counted 23 shades of blue, another 12 in various hues of purple.

"I bought this yesterday," he said, holding up the tin of turquoise paint. "It looks horrible."

"Oh dear."

She stared at the wall, eyes gliding back and forth from one colour to the next. "What kind of furniture do you have?"

Steve paused. The question caught him off guard. The apartment was small, but furnished, with basic necessities as well as the new additions Klein made to Steve's growing list of possessions. He assessed the living room in his mind; the bright blue walls were seared into his brain.

"I have a couple of sofas. A bookshelf. There's a coffee table, and a new tele—"

"Colour," the woman said, cutting him short. The friendliness in her voice was wearing off. "I mean, what colour is your furniture?"

"Oh. The sofas are brown, I think. I'm not really—I'm not good with colours." Steve's cheeks turned red, the back of his ears burned and his eyes were fixed down on his boots. The weight of that admission pounded against his chest; the anxiousness pooled in his gut, made his stomach churn. The world was going to learn that Captain America was flawed; he was a phony, a fraud, an undeserving liar who lied his way—the woman grasped his wrists without warning.

Steve almost dropped the tin.

"I am so sorry, I shouldn't have—it was terrible customer service. I apologise once again, I should not have been so insensitive," she said. Her grip on his wrists tightened as she moved to step in Steve's personal space.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I don't quite follow."

"You're colour-blind."

Her words felt heavy on his chest. Steve sighed and forced out a smile.

"No ma'am, I was. I got a treatment done and it's fixed but I'm just learning to see all these colours. They... get a little bit too much, sometimes."

Her face relaxed once she realised that he wasn't affronted by her careless tone. She let go of his hand and patted him on the back.

"You're one of the lucky ones. They have an experimental drug for everything these days, and they pay you in peanuts to be their guinea pigs."

Before Steve could protest about being called a guinea pig—Erskine and Howard were betting on the future of warfare with him, he was far more valuable than a simple lab rat—she took the turquoise paint from his hands. She was beaming.

"You can return this free of charge," she said, motioning him to follow her. "Come with me to the back. We have catalogues that will help you pick a better colour."

Steve followed her without question.

***

 

**Day Fifteen**

The paint was still drying after he painted over the old colour. The new coating on his walls was dark blue—“It’s Oxford blue,” the sales assistant had said, correcting him—and the acerbic odor of melted plastic and aerosol made Steve’s eyes water.

He left the apartment and observed herring gulls dip their feet in the ocean all afternoon. The tide was gentle; families huddled together on their mats on the sand; the children ran around playing catch. Young couples tiptoed as close to the water as they could without getting their feet wet. It was another reminder of home for Steve; reminiscent of a time that he coveted, more than anything else, but was forever out of his grasp.

Once the sun left the sky and the cold breeze rolled ashore, Steve walked to the gym. It was empty and twenty dollars bought him an hour with the punching bags. He started slow—two straight punches, a jab, another punch, an uppercut, a couple of jabs, and a rapid succession of punch.

His mind was back at the trenches; on the train speeding through the snow-capped hills in Germany; the smell of plasma melting metal, the adrenaline running through his vein, the rush of wind in his ears and the distant echo of Bucky’s scream as he fell. _Should’ve saved him_ , a voice echoed in his head. _Saved him. Save. Savesavesave._

Steve didn’t realize he was pummeling the punching bag until he knocked it off its chain and sent it flying across the room.

There was a pause, then—

“Trouble sleeping?” Fury asked.

Steve had wondered how long it would take for the director to show up; he didn’t expect it to be so soon, and something in Fury’s voice told him that it wasn’t a social call.

“You’re here with a mission, sir?”

“I am,” Fury said, confirming Steve’s suspicion.

“Trying to get me back in the world?”

“Trying to save it.”

**—FIN—**

**Author's Note:**

> This was beta-ed by the ever generous, and ever patient, [@starkravinghazelnuts](http://starkravinghazelnuts.tumblr.com/). Thank you so much for catching all of my atrocious grammar mistakes and lack of punctuation. 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [@rescueironman](http://rescueironman.tumblr.com). All mistakes in this fic are mine. Thank you for reading!


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